The Lining of her Apparell (which is her selfe)
is farre better than Outsides of Tissew: for tho' shee be not arraied
in the Spoyle of the Silke Worme, shee is deckt in Innocency, a far
better Wearing. Shee doth not, with lying long a Bed, spoile both her
Complexion and Conditions; Nature hath taught her, _too immoderate
Sleepe is rust to the Soul_: She rises therefore with _Chaunticleare_
her Dames Cocke, and at Night makes the Lambe her _Corfew_. In milking
a Cow, and straining the Teates through her Fingers, it seemes that so
sweet a Milke-Presse makes the Milke the whiter, or sweeter; for never
came Almond Glove or Aromatique Oyntment on her Palme to taint it. The
golden Eares of Corn fall and kisse her Feete when shee reapes them,
as if they wisht to be bound and led Prisoners by the same Hand that
fell'd them. Her Breath is her owne, which sents all the Yeere long
of _June_, like a new made Hay-cocke. Shee makes her Hand hard with
Labour, and her Heart soft with Pitty: And when Winter Evenings fall
early (sitting at her merry Wheele) she sings a Defiance to the giddy
Wheele of Fortune.
Pages:
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66